Devon Cream

by Aishling Morgan

  He began to fuck her breasts, moving his hips in little jerks that rubbed his cock between them. With each stroke his knob would vanish into her flesh, only to poke back out as he thrust forwards. Polly’s eyes were glued to the obscene sight, and she could feel the hard, hot shaft between her breasts. Half of her wanted to shut her eyes and turn her face away, the other half to kiss the bobbing red knob as it poked up from between her breasts.

  Then his hand closed on the crown of her bonnet and the decision was taken from her. Knowing what was to happen, she opened her mouth and let her breasts part. His cock reared up, touched her lips and then slid deep into her mouth. She began to suck his penis, far more willing and obedient than she wanted to be, but unable to resist. It felt huge in her mouth, and he was groaning. At any moment, she was sure, he would spunk up in her mouth, and then doubtless make her swallow his slimy, salty mess.

  Just when she was sure that she was going to have to do it, he pulled back and once more settled his cock between her breasts. Again he began to fuck them, only faster, more urgently and with his big hands gripped tight on her shoulders. She did her best to hold still and make a good slide for his cock, with her breasts squeezed tight around it. It felt nice, that she could not deny; yet it also hurt, with the rough cloth of his trousers rubbing hard on her erect nipples.

  Just when she was thinking that she ought to suck him and take the come in her mouth, Mr Arrish grunted and his hips jammed forwards. A spurt of thick, creamy white semen burst from his cock. Polly winced and tried to pull back but it landed full in her face, forming a long streamer of sticky fluid that ran from her hair, down across her forehead and one eye to her nose, from the tip of which a blob hung, suspended over her mouth. Even as she gave a cry of alarm and disgust, the second spurt erupted, full in her open mouth. The third was weaker and landed across her breasts, and the fourth a mere splash, which pooled in the fleshy hollow at the top of her cleavage.

  ‘Mr Arrish!’ she protested and shook her head, but only succeeded in dislodging the blob of spunk that hung from her nose on to her already badly soiled breasts. He took no notice, but continued to push, sliding his erection up and down in the sperm-slick valley of her cleavage until he was entirely spent. Then he groaned and stepped back, looking down with immense satisfaction at the mess he had made.

  ‘May I please borrow your handkerchief?’ Polly asked, as frostily as she could manage.

  ‘Not yet,’ he answered. ‘I want you like that while you play with your cunt. No, don’t pretend. I know what you girls get up to.’

  ‘Mr Arrish, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ Polly answered.

  ‘Oh, yes, you do,’ he laughed. ‘I know all about you and that Octavia Challacombe, remember. You know exactly what I mean. Now, come on. I want to see that pretty cunt and I want to hear you moan.’

  ‘There’s no need to be vulgar,’ Polly answered, but sat back on the ground.

  He watched as she somewhat resentfully pulled her skirts and petticoats up over her knees. Her beautiful new drawers were still open, and filthy with mud from where she had sat down in the road. Pulling the flap forwards between her legs, she exposed her sex. She put her hand to the mound, finding it wet with juice and mud. Her finger found her clitoris and she immediately knew that it was going to be easy, shamefully easy. Beneath Jan Arrish’s gloating leer, she began to masturbate, rubbing her own cream and the mud of the road into her sex until she came, screaming in a welter of ecstasy and humiliation.

  Octavia looked nervously from the window, expecting at any moment to see the distant form of a cart on the track. In it, she knew, would be the three matrons of Ermecombe, each one intent on taking out a measure of righteous indignation on her bottom. She had been thinking about it all night, half terrified, half excited. She had even put on a pair of drawers, as Polly had pointed out that if she was discovered to be naked under her skirts, her spanking would be doubly hard. They felt strange against her skin, and the split in the rear that allowed them to be opened if she needed to pee left her feeling more vulnerable than did her normal nakedness. It was as if having put drawers on for a spanking made the inevitable exposure of her bottom a far more significant event that it would otherwise have been. She knew how Polly had felt when Mrs Arrish had exposed her in the street, and was imagining the same. Mrs Arrish would take her across her knee and pull up her dress. Polly and Lias and the other two matrons would all watch as the split at the rear of her drawers was hauled apart and her bottom was laid bare. It would be left bare while her titties were popped out. Then she would be spanked, hard and long, much harder and much longer than any of the spankings Polly or Lias had ever given her. At the end, she’d be all excited, and they’d see . . .

  Suddenly she could no longer bear the thought. Being spanked by Polly or Lias hurt, but she got cuddles afterwards. With Mrs Arrish there would be no cuddles, just the pain of a well-smacked bottom and a long lecture about what she had done wrong. Yet she had done nothing wrong, of that she was sure. Polly might feel that what they did together was in some way unacceptable, but Octavia knew better. It hurt nobody, it was beautiful, and fun, and friendly and it was definitely not something for which she ought to be spanked!

  Turning abruptly, she ran down the stairs, to find Lias and Polly seated in the kitchen.

  ‘I don’t want to be spanked!’ she declared hotly as they turned to look at her. ‘Not by them; it’s just not fair!’

  ‘Best to get it over with,’ Polly answered gently.

  ‘No, I won’t!’ Octavia retorted.

  ‘Run up on the moor, then,’ Lias suggested casually. ‘Take some bread and cheese, maybe a jug of cider. Make an outing of it.’

  ‘You’ll only put it off,’ Polly objected, ‘and it’ll be all the harder for not doing as you’re told.’

  ‘You say that,’ Lias put in, ‘and it’s true that Anne Arrish isn’t one to give up easy, but it’s three miles up from Ermecombe and three miles down. She’s got things to mind other than your behind.’

  ‘She’ll catch you in the end,’ Polly supplied glumly.

  ‘Not today, she won’t,’ Octavia said with decision. ‘Come on, Polly, let’s go up on the moor.’

  ‘We’d best hide until it’s nearly dark,’ Polly said. ‘In case they come looking for us.’

  ‘Why trouble?’ Lias stated. ‘I can’t see Anne Arrish bothering to climb Hangingstone Hill after you, and Jane Apcott and Mary Athwell would never make it.’

  ‘Let’s be quick, then,’ Octavia said. ‘I’ll just check the track.’

  Once more she scampered up to her room. The track was no longer empty. At the distant corner, where it rounded a spur of the moor, a heavy wain could be seen. There were four occupants, a bulky man and three almost equally bulky women.

  A lump rose in Octavia’s throat and she ran back downstairs with her mind full of lifted skirts, wide-splayed drawers and smarting bottom-cheeks.

  ‘They’re coming!’ she exclaimed.

  Polly went pale and dropped the bread knife she had been holding. Lias scratched his neck with one grimy finger and jerked his thumb towards the back door. Not bothering to pick up the half-finished picnic, the girls ran, out the back way and up on to the slope of the hill. Not until they had reached the ridge did they look back, to find the wain approaching the ford.

  In the distance, the three women showed as no more than blobs of colour, yet one of them could be seen to be pointing. Octavia laughed, sensing the distant woman’s impotent fury. Turning, she flipped up the rear of her skirts, pulled her drawers wide and stuck out her bottom. Despite the distance, the gesture was immediately effective, causing a bellowed response of anger that was too faint for the words to be made out. Polly gave a squeak of surprise and delight at Octavia’s rude defiance of the matrons, then burst into giggles.

  The girls ran on, now in mischievous and daring mood. From the very crest of Hangingstone Hill they looked back once more, but the farm was invisible and what co
uld be seen of the track empty. Uncertain as to the matrons’ movements, and knowing that any spankings they might now get would be really hard, they continued on into the moor.

  An hour later they were stood on the top of Mill Tor, a tumble of granite that looked down on the village of Kerslake with its church, cluster of houses, a tea shop, the dairy where Polly had once worked, and the manor, set between village and moor. Ant-like figures could be made out in the yard of Kerslake Tea Shop. Suddenly aware of their hunger and thirst, and certain that they would be safe, they agreed to pay the shop a visit.

  Soon they were seated beneath a broad sunshade and waiting to be served, only for Polly to discover a new source of embarrassment as an elderly and wizened man appeared in the yard.

  ‘It’s Squire Maray!’ she hissed. ‘He was in the crowd who watched me get my spanking!’

  ‘A squire?’ Octavia asked. ‘Does he own a lot of land?’

  ‘He’s coming over!’ Polly squeaked as her cheeks flushed scarlet.

  ‘May I offer you some tea, my dears?’ the squire wheedled as he approached. ‘Or perhaps a refreshing glass of lemonade?’

  ‘Lemonade, please,’ Octavia answered brightly before Polly could speak.

  ‘A wise choice,’ the squire replied, pulling a seat up to the table. ‘Quite delicious on such a hot day.’

  ‘Very kind I’m sure,’ Polly said, still blushing, ‘but we were just thinking of starting home. It’s a long way back across the moor to the farm, and it wouldn’t do to be caught out of a night.’

  ‘I shall take only a moment of your time,’ he assured them and then turned to the tea girl. ‘Ah, my dear, three glasses of lemonade, if you would be so kind.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Octavia said, with Polly grudgingly echoing the remark.

  ‘A beautiful day, is it not?’ the squire said. ‘And now I have beautiful company. Polly, you are being forgetful.’

  ‘Oh,’ Polly said, ‘I’m sorry. Mr Maray, this is my friend Miss Octavia Challacombe; I keep house for her down to Erme Head Farm. Octavia, Squire Maray, who owns the big house we saw as we came down off the moor.’

  ‘Challacombe?’ the squire answered. ‘Emily Challacombe’s daughter? My, but you have grown, and so pretty. You were a babe in arms when I last saw you. That must have been seventeen – no, eighteen years ago!’

  Octavia returned a smile and sipped her lemonade.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘although it is a delight to speak to you both, that is not the sole reason for my interest. I have a proposition to put to you, girls, a most remunerative proposition.’

  ‘Beg pardon?’ Polly answered.

  ‘He means we get paid a lot,’ Octavia supplied.

  ‘Oh, he does, does he?’ Polly snapped. ‘Well, I’m not that sort of girl, Squire Maray, and neither’s my friend. We’ll not be taking any propositions, newmooneratif or otherwise.’

  ‘No, no, please,’ the squire insisted. ‘You have quite misunderstood me. I was not suggesting what you evidently thought. Good heavens, no, that would be quite improper! No, my requirements, while delicate, are in no way unsuitable. Yes, very delicate. Perhaps you might walk with me a little way?’

  Now curious, the girls acquiesced and together they walked a little way down the lane that led to the moor. When it was certain that nobody was within earshot, Squire Maray began to speak again.

  ‘I am not a young man any more,’ he confessed, ‘and lately have been troubled by a complaint of the bowel. The details are not suitable for mixed company, save to say that it is really quite painful and prevents me from sleeping at nights. Dr Appleby, who is a most learned gentleman, from London originally, has recommended a regime. This is centred on milk but has been only partly successful. The most efficacious version, he assures me, is practised among the natives of the Andaman Islands, which is where you may be of assistance.’

  ‘I’m sure we wouldn’t know a thing about it, Mr Maray,’ Polly answered.

  ‘Ah, but you do, my dear,’ he continued. ‘You especially. During your unfortunate, but doubtless admonitory, punishment yesterday morning, I could not fail to notice the magnificence of your bosom.’

  ‘I knew it would be something rude,’ Polly said accusingly, even as the colour rose once more to her cheeks.

  ‘No, no, my dear,’ he answered hastily. ‘I assure you that it is strictly a medical matter, and that I would not dream of making this suggestion were it not absolutely essential to my health. You see, for the regime to work, I require human milk. Dr Appleby assures me that it is my only hope!’

  ‘Human milk?’ Polly squeaked.

  ‘Please, my dear, not so loud,’ the squire said. ‘Believe me, this is a most difficult situation for me.’

  ‘But . . . but . . .’ Polly stammered, ‘but I’m not a wet nurse. Why, Mr Maray, I haven’t a baby!’

  ‘Curiously,’ the squire went on, ‘that is not necessary. Dr Appleby has prepared extensive notes on how milk may be started in any girl sufficiently full-bosomed. By chance, I have them on me . . .’

  ‘It won’t do, Mr Maray, it won’t do at all,’ Polly interrupted. ‘Look, I’m sorry you’re ill, but what you need is a wet nurse.’

  ‘I only wish it were so simple,’ he replied. ‘No, my dear. As I mentioned, it is a matter of the utmost delicacy. You were always a discreet girl, Polly. I remember, many’s the time you kept young Jervis’s merry little pranks to yourself when you used to work at the dairy. Were I to employ a wet nurse, my embarrassing ailment would be the talk of the county in no time at all.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Polly admitted.

  ‘You are also a dairy maid by trade and aware of the importance of cleanliness,’ he urged, ‘not to mention having the most magnificent physique. Now look, my dear, I am not a poor man. I was one of the earlier investors in the famous Devon Great Consoles Mines, of which you may have heard, and it left me with a tidy fortune. I am prepared to offer a half-sovereign a quart.’

  ‘A half-sovereign a quart?’ Polly and Octavia echoed in chorus.

  ‘A half-sovereign a quart?’ Lias Slater exclaimed. ‘Why certainly you must do it!’

  ‘But I . . .’ Polly objected.

  ‘This is no time for being prissy,’ Lias interrupted. ‘Not at a half-sovereign a quart!’

  ‘Come on, Polly,’ Octavia urged. ‘It’s a lot of money. Besides, you like playing with your titties.’

  ‘Octavia!’

  ‘It’s not like it’s hard work even,’ Lias added. ‘No more than a couple of hours a day, I don’t reckon. And, like the maid says, it’s not so very different from what you do anyhow. Nor is it anything to be ashamed of; after all, you’re doing it for the best reasons, and for a squire.’

  ‘Well, he is a gentleman,’ Polly admitted uncertainly. ‘I suppose it’s an honour, in a way.’

  ‘Certainly it is,’ Lias agreed. ‘Now, come on, girl, say you’ll do it.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ Polly answered, ‘but it’s to be done proper, and no mischief. And I’ll want Octavia to try, too. I’m not doing it all on my own.’

  ‘Sounds fair to me,’ Lias agreed. ‘You’re neither of you exactly what you’d call short in the apple-dumpling shop.’

  ‘I’m not nearly as big as Polly,’ Octavia said, ‘but I don’t mind, if only to keep her company.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ Lias said. ‘Now, what about those instructions?’

  ‘It’s all in fancy language,’ Octavia replied, ‘but they seem simple enough.’

  ‘Best follow as close as we know how,’ Lias suggested. ‘That’s always the best way with a doctor’s instructions, else who knows what might happen.’

  ‘Very true, Lias,’ Polly agreed.

  ‘Let me see,’ Octavia read. ‘It says here . . . “Adopt a kneeling position, thus leaving the breasts hanging freely from the torso. Take a breast in both hands and massage for one half-hour, being sure to use even, regular strokes . . .”.’

  ‘How am I supposed to go about s
queezing them when I’m kneeling down?’ Polly demanded.

  ‘Perhaps I should do it for you,’ Octavia suggested. ‘I don’t suppose it’d be much different from milking a cow.’

  ‘You know where that sort of cheek will lead you, Octavia Challacombe!’ Polly retorted.

  ‘You’d have to have a bucket underneath, once the milk had started,’ Lias put in. ‘Wouldn’t do to waste any, not at a half-sovereign a quart. And we’ll need one of those small pails, and a set of copper ladles . . .’

  ‘Leave those details to me,’ Polly interrupted. ‘Remember, I was a dairy maid for five years. What I don’t know about handling milk doesn’t need knowing.’

  ‘Maybe that’s true,’ Lias answered, ‘but I was milking cows when you were at your mother’s teat. In truth, I was just about milking ’em when she was at your granny’s teat!’

  ‘There’s no need for vulgarity, Lias Slater,’ Polly answered. ‘Now the first thing is to do it all proper so it runs nice and smooth. As Lias says, we’ll need a pail, and a set of ladles, and a stall of some sort – nice and clean, mind you . . .’

  Polly Endicott knelt in the small stall of white-washed stone that had once been a pigsty. She was naked save for a pair of voluminous drawers, and her big breasts dangled freely from her chest above a sturdy copper pail. Both Lias and Octavia had suggested complete nudity as the most hygienic and proper condition. Polly had demurred, recognising Octavia’s mischievous manner and Lias’s lecherous eagerness. She could see the sense in the argument, but it was humiliating enough to be stalled like a farm beast without being completely naked into the bargain. So she had insisted on retaining her big split-seam drawers, which at least hid the more intimate details of her bottom from view. Even so, she was intensely aware of the sight she presented, particularly with her hindquarters towards the door. Lias was forbidden to come in, yet Polly was sure that he would do his best to peep through the various cracks and knot-holes in the planking of the old door.